Chapter 20

[Pear]

“Pear?”

Sitting bolt upright, I turn to Brock, conked out beside me. Through the slim opening of the blanket fort above us, the fire has dwindled to a dull orange of simmering embers once again.

Last night we went another few rounds of coming together between drifts of sleep and an actual card game. Each time one of us brushed up against the other, it was as if a match struck, and the flame sparked. We’d been insatiable.

Now, the bright light of a new day fills the chilly room.

And my dad is back early. Or is it late? What time is it?

“Dad.” I hold my breath, hoping I’m dreaming. This cannot be happening. At forty-one years old, I’m not being caught in a blanket fort in the living room, minus my clothes, and lying beside someone who works with my father.

“Paradise?” My father’s tone stiffens.

Nope. Not dreaming. Mortified, but not dead.

“Shit,” I mutter, searching for clothing but when I can’t seem to piece together anything that would semblance an outfit, I drag a quilt around me, exposing more of Brock before crawling out of the fort on all fours. Awkwardly I stand, with the blanket wrapped around my middle and clutching at it near my breasts.

“You’re back early.”

“With the storm finally over, I left hoping to beat another one.” Dad is dressed in his typical winter attire. A quilted flannel and a knit cap covering his gray buzz cut. Weathered skin shows his age but his smile is typically warm. A thin layer of scruff covers his jaw from days without a razor. He turns his face toward the window before looking back at me. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?” I told him I was sticking around for a while, playing off the extended time like this was a vacation, before I could tell him this was a permanent leave of absence from my former life.

Suddenly, the fort beside me shudders and the blanket over the top of the chairs collapses to cover Brock in a makeshift kilt around his waist. He stands to his full height and places his palm on my lower back, like a united front. He addresses my dad.

“Morning, Cap.”

“Brock?” My father’s gaze pings between the two of us before his brows crease, the divot severe enough to hold a quarter. “What are you doing here?”

Not exactly the first question I thought he’d ask, considering we’re both only dressed in blankets.

“What do you mean?” Brock stares at my dad before giving me a questioning glance then looking back at Dad. “You told me to stay.”

Dad’s eyes narrow, his glare returning to me. “You got my text, right?”

I swallow hard and lower my head. Chewing at my lower lip, I side-eye Brock. This isn’t how I wanted him to find out.

“What text?” Brock asks, rubbing up my back and watching me, before peering at my dad for answers.

“I’d messaged Pear later that first day, telling her she didn’t have to keep you here. She’d been right. It wasn’t fair to ask her to take on my responsibility. It was my job to restore you. It was your job to be on time and you hadn’t been.”

Brock removes his hand from my back, and I hate the loss of his touch. He swipes the same hand through his messy hair. His shoulders stiffen as my father continues to glare at him.

“I don’t understand.” Brock’s voice is rough, from both sleep and sudden irritation. He scratches beneath his chin next, the hair thick along his throat. I don’t want to think about where his face has been.

“I don’t either,” Dad counters, keeping his focus on Brock while taking a good look at him from top to toe. In our blanket attire, the situation is rather obvious.

“Dad, I can explain. ”

“You better explain.” Dad points at Brock, ignoring me and focusing an accusing scowl in Brock’s direction. He takes a step closer to us where Brock stands beside me, but I don’t miss the incremental shift. The moment he slides a little bit away from me.

I rush forward. “Dad, it wasn’t his fault.”

“Whose was it then?” Brock asks from behind me.

I hang my head before looking back at him. “Mine.”

“Explain this to me.” Brock’s hands come to his hips, his eyes are liquid ink again, on the verge of returning to dark coal. Questions well in his gaze, when I haven’t worked out the answers yet.

I didn’t really know why I did what I’ve done.

“You seemed so desperate for a chance to prove yourself to Dad.” My voice falters.

“Are you turning this around on me?” Brock snaps, poking one thick finger against his bare chest. “I could have gone home, is that right?”

Brock looks up at Dad. Neither Dad nor I answer, as Dad’s gaze shifts to me, brows cinched deeply in confusion. And disappointment.

I scramble to explain myself, keeping my gaze on Brock who refuses to look at me.

“When my dad sent a text that I could send you home, I intended to send you packing. But when you came to the door, all huffing and puffing about not finding a motel, I . . .” I what? Let him in. Made a space for the big bad wolf.

“You took advantage of me,” Brock whispers, his gaze floating to me and holding.

“Not what it looks like from my perspective,” Dad interjects, disgruntled and verging on his own example of an angered wolf.

“But I didn’t,” I say to Brock, my voice rising as I step in his direction again. “Look at all you did in twelve days. You gave owls a home and helped some cows. You donated to the Special Olympics and aided a farmer. You fixed Dad’s fence and a few pieces of furniture.”

My gaze shifts to Dad whose brows lower only a little. His expression shifting from upset father to puzzled mentor .

“Don’t forget making Valentine’s pears and chopping wood,” Brock mocks.

“Valentine’s pears?” Dad questions and I turn toward him.

“Brock put in his twelve days, Dad. He should be exonerated or considered restored or whatever you call it. He agreed to attend future therapy sessions.”

“That’s none of his business,” Brock snaps again, fire and smoke in his words.

“You did?” Dad asks, glancing over my shoulder at his charge.

When I shift once more, Brock ignores Dad. The full weight of his cold stare is on me.

“Explain this to me.” Brock points at the fallen fort. The heap of blankets that was once our little haven.

This is where it gets complicated. This is where I didn’t want to hurt him, but I was tired of hurting. Selfish .

“It’s the loneliest time of the year,” I whisper. Sometimes a girl just wants her daddy. My one safe place but he was leaving for twelve long days.

Brock’s brows hitch then crease.

I lower my voice when I say, “And I thought you seemed lonely, too.”

That divot between Brock’s brows turns into a deep furrow. “So you thought you’d . . . what? Lead me on? Take advantage of me? Let me hang out thinking I was working on myself only to learn you were working me instead.”

“Hey,” Dad snaps, causing me to flinch.

“It wasn’t like that.” But my voice is too weak, the defense even weaker. His explanation might sum it up. I didn’t want to be alone, but I shouldn’t have told him he could stay.

Hanging my head once more, I say quietly, “I didn’t intend to trick you.”

“Trick me?” Brock barks. “You made me fall—” A dark glare accompanies his abrupt stop. The silence that follows his unfinished sentence weighs as heavy as snow clouds around all of us .

“No one makes us do anything,” With his hands on his hips, holding his disappointment momentarily at bay, Dad’s advice is ill-timed. He means well but he needs to read the stormy room.

Brock turns on him. “Yeah, that’s not what happened here. I thought I had to stay.”

“You were late,” Dad reminds him, his tone sharpening at the edge in Brock’s voice. “You were free to go. In fact, you’re now free from the department.”

I step closer to my father again, hand up in defense. “Dad. No .”

Without a glance back at Brock, I feel the energy leave his body. His retorts. His defense. His fight. All gone. His anger is the only thing palpable in the room, swirling around me like yesterday’s blizzard. A different kind of snowstorm, complete with frigid air and relentless emotions, seeps into my bones along with a bitter frost that numbs my flesh.

“Dad. Please.” I beg, finally reaching him and forcing him to focus his upset on me. “This is on me. I did this. I kept him here.”

Dad stares at me, long and hard, and hurt. Behind me, I sense Brock shift, the damage to him done. He exits the room.

I squeeze my dad’s shoulder before releasing him, clutching at my blanket dress again. “Dad,” I whisper, uncertain how to plead Brock’s case.

Dad’s gaze momentarily drops to my attire before looking away, purposely keeping his eyes off me. “Are you trying to tell me you seduced that man?” His tone rings incredulous.

Now, I’m pissed. At Dad. At the situation. At myself for the sudden doubts his question raises.

“Why would that be so hard to believe?” Because I’m not thin and tiny. Because I’ve been divorced and devastated. Or rather, deceived. Because I’m a woman, I can’t be a seductress.

“I just . . .” Dad swallows thickly. “You’re not like that.”

“Like what, Dad? Sexy? Smart? Knowing what I want and going after it.” I sigh, and step back, giving myself distance from the one man I thought would love me in any form. “I didn’t have the intention to fall for Brock. I didn’t set out to seduce him .”

I hiss the words like the concept is something inconceivable, when it’s actually been empowering. Maybe I unknowingly seduced him. Maybe I wanted him to be attracted to me, and he was. Maybe I’m a grown-ass woman and can own my sexuality however I see fit.

Not that I want to discuss my sexual escapades with my father, but I want him to understand I’m a woman. A woman with a brain and a body. A heart and desires. I deserve what I want. Maybe not by deceptive measures, of course, but I can still crave things and earn them.

“Fall for him?” Dad chokes.

“And why would that be so hard to believe?” I glare at my father, seeking his eyes. “You said yourself Brock is a good man with a big heart. You’ve given him chance after chance because you see something in him. Maybe you don’t like his temper or his reactive behavior, but you also know he’s been through a lot.”

Dad mirrors my glare, surprised that I know a thing or two about Brock.

His divorce. His empty nest. His guilt over the loss of a fellow fireman.

Dad didn’t get divorced, but he lost his wife. He lost his girls. One to death; one to a move. He’s lost people beneath his command. Surely, he understands.

“And what about you, Pear? You’ve been through enough, too.” He means Mom and Precious. Even Reggie.

“And I’m working on myself.” I sigh. “And isn’t that what you always taught me. Own up to mistakes. That’s what your restorative sessions are about.” And I’ve owned up to mine. Reggie being the biggest one, but not Brock.

“I feel like I don’t know who you are right now.”

“I have so much to tell you,” I admit. But maybe after a shower. At the very least, I need to get dressed before I confess everything to my dad. Most of all, I want to talk to Brock. Still, I say, “But know this for now. I’m me, Dad. More me than I’ve felt in a long, long time.” I swallow around a growing thickness in my throat. “I’m whole again.”

Meeting my dad’s concerned eyes, I add, “And Brock just wants to get there as well.” I exhale. “Please don’t take the department from him.”

Dad’s shoulders fall and he lowers his head a second before it pops up and he stares over my shoulder.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. How long has Brock been standing there?

Slowly, I turn to face him. He’s fully dressed, his bag in his hand, ready to leave. His head is lowered as well, and I feel safe to assume he’s heard quite a bit of my confession to my father.

Silently, he steps closer to me and pauses. My heart hammers. My breathing erratic. Brock inhales, closes his eyes a second and then opens them. Flames fire off around those coal-colored eyes.

“I’m so mad at you,” he admits.

“I know,” I whisper, my voice shaky. Tears prickle my eyes and Brock blurs before me, but I blink several times. The tears are for me. My loss of him. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Brock nods once, leans toward me and weakly kisses my cheek. I close my eyes and a tear slips free. He doesn’t address my dad, just passes his captain—former captain—and stalks to the pegs near the front door, removing his jacket and slipping into his construction boots.

Without a glance back at either of us, I watch through the kitchen window as Brock walks to his truck. Deciding I can’t watch him drive away, I turn my head.

And by some freak of nature, the electricity clicks back on.

Too bad the sudden light does not touch the places that are dark and cold inside me.